


Smells Like Teen Spirit

by orphan_account



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: (depending on what u define as happy ending), Angst with a Happy Ending, Caring and Protective Seungkwan, Cheating, Complicated Relationships, Drugs, Emotionally Constipated Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Explicit Language, Fuckboy Yoon Jeonghan, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by Skins (UK), M/M, Partying, Punk Rock, Shameless Smut, Smoking, Swearing, Top Jeon Wonwoo, fucked up teenagers being wild, sex on drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Shameless smut that centers on the tense lives of a group of teenagers as the friends and wannabe lovers party, fuck, and break each others hearts (or not... It's complicated).
Relationships: Boo Seungkwan/Chwe Hansol | Vernon, Chwe Hansol | Vernon/Jeon Wonwoo, Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Yoon Jeonghan, Kim Mingyu/Lee Jihoon | Woozi, Lee Jihoon | Woozi/Park Chanyeol
Kudos: 28





	Smells Like Teen Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> \- The MAIN ships in this fic are Verkwan, Jihan, and Jigyu  
> \- If you're here, I'm assuming that you're a fan or familiar with Skins as a show but for those who aren't please note that there will be underage sex and use of drugs and alcohol, as well as storylines dealing with mature themes. That being said, before reading please keep in mind that this story is listed 'Explicit' for a reason.  
> \- Don't take this story too seriously, I wrote this for the funsies. It should be taken lightheartedly and just enjoyed without too much thought. There might be some grammar mistakes in there because I don't want this to be super polished.

By the time he is 26, Jeonghan’s name is synonymous with self-indulgence, wealth and deception. Almost every night of the week, music can be heard blaring from his gigantic mansion, the pool area strewn with half-naked youths – a temple of excessive indulgence in sex, alcohol, and drugs. Inside the house, on a gleaming glass table, lays a curved, hollow goat's horn filled with illicit goods, spread out like a buffet of intoxication.

Jeonghan with his angel’s face and his scandalous reputation has an uncanny ability to find and collect recreational substances, and though his disciples had never even heard of some of them, they were nonetheless keen to indulge. Most of the drugs came from a mysterious dealer known only by the alias ‘vobo’, and Jeonghan delighted in sharing every substance, revelling in each new sensation.

Frequently youths can be found hangover in the morning, spread out on the sunlit lawn of Jeonghan’s mansion, or crumpled in a corner, clothes ruined with vomit, but these unhappy endings are never enough to stop teenagers from joining his next party. Anyone entering Jeonghan’s house does so with eagerness – eagerness to gamble away their life in pursuit of the ultimate high, and all were well aware that nights of boundless ecstasy and fucking could very well end their future careers.

And Jeonghan enjoys that, marvels at the highs and lows of these young teenagers who once may become the most influential politicians, lawyers, doctors, journalists, actors and CEO’s of their time. His parties were a means of forging meaningful connections, of collecting interesting black mail and, most importantly, having fun.

But despite his life of constant excess, Jeonghan burned with an unquenchable flame. No one has ever known him to suffer a hangover – no one has ever seen him vomit with drunkenness, run screaming into the busy streets on a terrifying acid trip, or express any morning regrets. Even after days without sleep he remained ethereally beautiful, and his lust for vice never waned.

To the drug-addled youths of Seoul, Jeonghan was an icon. To be allowed entrance to Jeonghan’s house was a badge of honour in itself. Within the gates of his mansion was a reeling drunken world, a world of neon and ecstasy, belonging to him alone.

Tonight, Jeonghan’s chosen disciples were a tall boy with tangled blue hair and dear-like face who introduced himself as Joshua, and a topless guy with gleaming ebony skin, perfectly muscular breasts and full red lips who grinningly told Jeonghan his name was Mingyu and he is up for all kinds of fun.

They aren’t close friends, Jeonghan can tell by the awkward silence and the flustered glances that pass between them. Both from prestigious private schools, they obviously must know each other but from their clothing down to their posture, it is clear that Joshua is a nerd, shy and gentle mannered but clearly more comfortable with computers than humans, and Mingyu a jock, popular amongst the girls and rich in friends but still sweet and kind, almost a bit clumsy. Like a dog, Jeonghan assumes.

Jeonghan leads them into his bedroom, sprawling out across satin sheets and plucking the waiting syringe from his nightstand, its barrel already filled with rich liquid. Laying back amongst a scattering of soft pillows, he watches as Joshua crawls onto the bed, tugging down Jeonghan’s jeans, his innocent young face dominated by eyes as wide and black as the night sky, his pupils dilated.

Mingyu starts to dance at the foot of the bed, running his hands over his glistening, oiled skin, and Jeonghan watches his muscular body move as Joshua closes his lips around the head of Jeonghan’s pierced cock.

Jeonghan smiles an angel’s smile, slipping a belt around his left bicep and snapping it tight. The needle pierced through his flawless skin, gliding easily into a vein, and Jeonghan allows the drug to slip into his bloodstream, sprawling out amongst the glittering pillows with a soft sigh of bliss. The empty syringe slipped from his delicate fingers, and the warm rush envelops him as he comes into the hot wet mouth of his lover, his ice-blue eyes blissfully glazed.

* * *

Hoshi is awoken by searing nausea, and he falls from the couch, his head throbbing, stumbling desperately into the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet before he throws up a rancid cocktail of vodka and coca cola, shot through with pearly trails of semen, their origins unknown. As he crumpled into a shuddering heap on the bathroom floor, he winces at the pain in his rectum, and with a groan of despair he yanks down his boxers and examined himself.

His cock seems to be doing fine, but his stinging asshole was slightly torn and bloody. He must have really outdone himself this time.

As he rinsed the rancid taste from his mouth, Hoshi fearfully examined his reflection in the mirror, and is shocked to find that, amongst the blonde tangle of his hair, his ice-blue eyes are bloodshot, and his pale skin tinged with nauseous green. He can almost hear his mother’s worried voice, asking, “When will you ever learn, boy?”

Hoshi stares bleakly into the mirror, watching the blood drain from his face, before he drops to his knees in front of the toilet, and retches up another torrent of semen and stomach acid.

“Bro, you sounded like you were dying in there,” his friend Vernon slurs when Hoshi stumbles back into the huge living room. He doesn’t sound very concerned though, his ember-colored eyes red-rimmed, a look that is so typical for him.

Hoshi manages a, “Am alright,” before he grabs his jacket from the glass table that stands in the middle of the room, putting it on even though it is soaked with liquor and other substances that Hoshi doesn’t want to identify. It isn’t expensive and some would say not very tasteful either – the drawing of a tiger decorates its back – but Hoshi loves it nonetheless.

It was a present from his older brother, and it means something to him. Maybe it gives him the feeling of hope, the sense that a better future is waiting for him out there. That one day, he can be as successful as his brother who has been given a scholarship to Oxford University, while Hoshi has been left behind, his pitiful A Levels granting him access only to the local university, a school for fuckups and imbeciles.

Hoshi’s only friends at his new university were a pair of drug-added wasters, and Vernon was definitely one of his favorites, although he is particularly always high on weed. “Get up, we’ve got school.”

“Uh,” Vernon hides his face in his arms, “I don’t think so, dude.” 

Hoshi snorted, already on his way out. “You’re gonna get your ass beat,” he calls behind him before he disappears through the front door. Not that he actually cared about grades or attendance, but there’s a certain kind of optimism that told him that he should at least _try_. And so he does, like the good boy that he is, turning up at school with his soiled clothes, disheveled blonde hair and greenish complexion.

When Hoshi walks into the doctor’s office half an hour later, he can tell that it is bad news. Dr Schmidt looks even more world-weary and resigned than ever before, and as Hoshi sits down, he lets out an exasperated sigh and asks in his thick German accent,

“Have you been _trying_ to make yourself sick?”

“No!” Hoshi protests. “Nobody _wants_ to have a god-awful hangover. It just so happens that my body does that after I partied my pants off.”

Dr Schmidt shook his head, obviously not having his attitude.

“I do not know what more I can tell you! I have offered you counselling on a hundred occasions, and always you say no, I told you that you will end up as an alcoholic living on the streets if you continue like this and that they will throw you out of school. I really don’t know what more words I can use with you!”

Hoshi ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, knowing full well that if he tried to explain that his life just is so incredibly boring and that he is sick of always having to try so hard to please everyone and that drugs and crazy parties are just his way of relaxing and surviving in this dog-eat-dog kind of world, he would be thrown into the asylum for the rest of his life.

Dr Schmidt’s eyes drift down to Hoshi’s exposed arm, and he demands, “You haven’t been using a needle, have you? That is extremely dangerous, Soonyoung.”

“I don’t _know,”_ Hoshi mutters, yanking down his sleeve. “I don’t _remember.”_

The doctor lets out another defeated sigh, and asks,

“Will you not accept _counselling_ this time? It is clear to me that you are a very sick, with all of this drinking and this sex, how do you expect to pass your classes, it’s just common sense that–“

Hoshi stares at the doctor’s moving lips in dead silence. Not really listening, not really even being there in the room. He wonders if Vernon has already made it back home, playing video games on his xbox or if he is still sleeping on one of Jeonghan’s lavish couches.

* * *

Vernon is actually pretty busy with roaming around in his little flat, trying to somehow manage to make it seem like he was ill– because his best friend slash mother slash whiny brat that never let him skip school for once in his life texted him five minutes ago, saying he would be there any minute, bringing Vernon soup rich in electrolytes.

“Dammit, Seungkwan!”

That is all that Vernon can curse under his breath as he puts on a fresh white t-shirt, before throwing a handful of water in his face which would hopefully give him the perfect sickly sweaty look that he is aiming for.

Thankfully, that seems to do because Seungkwan just eyes him up once before he drags him to bed, tugging him in while telling him he should be more careful and wear warm clothing. His nervous ranting eventually turns into a story time as he feeds Vernon with his yummy broth,

“Last week, I found out that someone reported a picture on my online dating profile, because it was a picture of my dog, and I wasn’t in it. Can you believe that!”

Seungkwan shakes his head, sending red strands of hair into motion. He is so cute like that and normally Vernon would have reached out to touch his forehead and maybe play with his fringe a little until Seungkwan would be too annoyed and brush him off. But well, today he has to pretended he is sick, so he doesn’t get his ass beat by the smaller guy. So, he just nods encouragingly, listening to his friend’s tirade.

“This offended me, for two reasons– one, because Bookkeu, and two, because they clearly didn’t appreciate me being a dog person. That’s why I put that picture up there in the first place– I’m the perfect human personification of a dog, and if I’m going to find my perfect girlfriend, she really has to like dogs too. And there’s no way for me to put up a picture with ‘me’ as a dog, because I’m not that good at photoshop.”

Vernon can’t suppress the giggle. It earns him a hard look from his friend but since he is sick, Seungkwan can’t stay mad at him for long. A moment later, he’s already back to worrying about Vernon, making sure he is all comfortable in his bed and he ate enough of the soup and also drank the glass water Seungkwan put on his nightstand.

He’s always like this, comes soft and caring into Vernon’s life, so unlike how he is with everyone else, offering up affection like he’s doing Vernon a favor, just being a good mate, and not as if he’s the one who actually needs and wants this, coming up with excuses so that he can have it, so that all the blame is put on Vernon’s feet.

“Did you ever think about daddy kinks?” he mutters, still a bit hungover. Seungkwan shoots him a curious glance. He settles himself in on what he knows is Vernon’s side of the bed, fluffing the pillow behind him.

“Daddy _kink._ And nope, what about it?”

Vernon shrugs lazily. He reaches out to play a little with Seungkwan’s hair, bending and twirling the red strands of hair around his slender flingers.

“It’s like, some people are really into all the pampering, you know? Baby talk and parental roles. All that jizz.”

Seungkwan rolls over into his space, throwing a leg over both of Vernon’s, pressing his face into his neck. “Wanna confess something?”

Vernon snorted. “No, dude. I was just curious because you are so caring and all. Motherly.”

“And so you concluded I must have a weird _parental_ kink.”

Vernon holds Seungkwan’s stare. He knows one of them would give in and break into laughter, and this time, it’s not going to be him. “Or something like it. You’re the expert here.”

“Vernon,” Seungkwan presses out, barely suppressing his laughter, “I don’t have a daddy kink, _trust_ me.”

That’s when Vernon finally breaks and laughs harder than he has all month, eyes tearing up and all, and while he’s busy with that, Seungkwan manages to sneak his hand into his. And soon Vernon drifts off to sleep without a fucking care in the world, secure that Seungkwan will look out for him, fix him a cup of coffee once he’s ready to face the world again, making sure he eats something. And of course Vernon will, and he won’t actually mind it half as much as his complaining might suggest.

* * *

Beneath the eternal rays of the midday sun, Jeonghan is spreadeagled on his hands and knees, Mingyu’s thick dick thrusting deliciously into his backside while the blue-haired boy lays beneath him, Jeonghan’s dick sliding in and out of his warm wet mouth. Gosh, to start the new day like the old one ended– it feels like eternal bliss.

Between waves of pleasure, Jeonghan leans down to snort a line of off the shaved groin of his lover, sniffing it up hard so that some of the cool white powder hits the back of his throat, numbing the membranes. He takes Joshua’s dick in his mouth, and lets it glide all the way down his numbed throat, the three of them writhing in perfect rhythm.

* * *

Woozi doesn’t particularly like his job, but he doesn’t hate the drug dealing either. It sort of just happened. Like it always does, when a kid with issues discovers how freaking easy it is to make money with weed, and then moves on to selling harder stuff, things that _really_ bring in the cash.

He’s always been a loner. Not quite an outsider, but also not included either. There has always been this distance between him and other people, and well, even as a dealer who meets all kinds of people, he has barely any friends. Barely anyone to talk to. Instead, he has those endless neon nights, those reeling blacklit 3 am moments when the music seeps into his bloodstream and tingles through every vein, when he has fallen out of the doors of clubs into the cool night air and stares for hours at the autumn leaves, the graceful curve of their branches framing the sparkling eternity of the midnight sky.

Those moments when the daylight world sleeps in its bed and he alone possess the night, feels the darkness and moonlight coursing through him in a sizzling torrent of endless possibility – the moments when he feels _alive_ , not merely existing. Music turned up until every drumbeat shivers through the marrows of his bones, pounds in time with the unstoppable rhythm of his heart.

Music– that is his life blood, the thing that gets him going, the reason why he wakes up each day and does his stupid little tasks– not drugs, not any of this bullshit. Music makes Woozi feel invincible, untouchable – whatever happens in the cruel and meaningless world outside, it can be fended off, ignored, destroyed, with the sound of his songs.

Sometimes he wishes he could just have that, immersing himself in the idyllic fantasy: there were no unreliable dealers, no waiting around in the cold and the rain, there were no patrolling policemen, no empty wallets, no fucked up teenagers who begged him for more.

Standing at the back of some rundown club, exchanging drugs against money, he remembers his time in Busan, in an apartment high above a busy city, when as the sun set, he would sometimes stand at the window with a slow burning cigarette, watching the crowds come and go, watching them laugh and chat, feeling as though he were an angel looking down from heaven. Sometimes he would drag on his leather jacket and go down to walk amongst them, to reel through the city streets.

But the truth is, Woozi has never been an angel looking down. There had been nights when he didn't sleep at all, when he threw back the tangled sheets and paced around his room, smoking endless cigarettes and staring out of the window at the empty darkened street, gazing at the moon, a flat dull orb that held no silver secrets. And the stars didn't shimmer then, the autumn trees were brown and dead.

And he had been alone. So utterly alone. Is still, at times.

Under the shower, he rests his head against the wall, the water sliding through his black hair and down his back, and he thinks about all the memories he would want to bury. He flips over his wrist and stares at his scars.

He can’t believe he was once that guy who carved things into his flesh, out of habit and also because he couldn’t find happiness, that guy who thought he would find it in death. He traces a scar, left to right and right to left, happy to have it as a reminder not to be such a dumbass again.

Wanting to take his mind off of bad memories, Woozi uses the detachable shower head to pleasure himself, twisting until the pressure goes from spray to direct, forming a firm stream of water. He aims it at the underside of the red head of his thick dick and waits. The water pelts at his heated skin, a steadily unrelenting source of pressure, verging on punishing.

After a moment, he arches his hips, thrusting up against the stream, mimicking friction. He likes how good the warm water feels, steady and fluid against his dick. And in a way, he likes this oddly pleasant sensation too, because it’s like jacking off when your hand is numb, a separate entity touching you, bringing you release.

When he comes, he tries his hardest to focus on the white and the nothing, his eyes forced open.

Last June, Chanyeol asked him out while they were hanging out at his studio. He’s a cool dude, tall and handsome and kind of famous in the music scene where Woozi has yet to catch a foot in. It’s important for Woozi to remember this—the asking-out part—because it means Chanyeol saw something in him.

He walks the ten blocks downtown to the apartment where his boyfriend lives with his rich dad. The guy doesn’t really pay Chanyeol a whole lot of attention, but at least he’s got the wealth and the connections to help with Chanyeol’s music career. Woozi buzzes the intercom and smiles when he sees Chanyeol sticking his head out from his window on the second floor, sun rays glowing against his face.

“I’ll be down in a sec, I gotta wash up first.”

Chanyeol shows him his hands, wet with blue and pink paint, and winks before ducking back in. He comes down a couple minutes later, still in the ratty white shirt he wears to paint, and he smiles dimply before hugging Woozi.

“Hey,” Woozi greets, tiptoeing to kiss Chanyeol.

“Hi,” Chanyeol says back, his longish pink hair not hiding his watery eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Woozi inquires, patting his boyfriend’s chest. He’s not the best at comforting but Chanyeol is always emotional about _something_ , so he has had plenty of time to practice.

Chanyeol doesn’t seem to need the usual validation, because he just shows off his two perfect dimples once more, saying, “Nothing, don’t worry. Painting is just stressing me out like whoa. You’re rescuing me just in time.”

He punches Woozi in the shoulder, the aggressive way he chooses to flirt. It does hurt because Chanyeol is a big, muscular guy but hey, Woozi can take it. He smiles through the pain and takes Chanyeol’s hand when he offers it, walking towards the closest bus stop down the street.

“Starbucks or Coffee Fellows,” he asks because Chanyeol is the stereotype of a messy artist who loves to sit in a coffee shop all day, soaking up the atmosphere and feeling all artsy as he takes in the aesthetics and sips on some hot cappuccino.

Chanyeol made a little jump in the air, surprising Woozi with his sudden change of mood. “Coffee Fellows all the way, dumbo!”

Dumbo– he’s been calling Woozi that since their first kiss a couple days after they started dating. Woozi is pretty sure it’s because he might’ve accidentally bumped heads with him twice like the biggest amateur in the history of inexperienced kissers.

“I guess you’re done being unpredictable,” he says, which surprisingly earns him a peck on the cheek and a comfortable back hug, and Woozi is not one to question such acts of affection and leans back into it, patiently waiting for the bus as he uses his tall boyfriend as a human pillow.

* * *

Wonwoo is lying on an inflatable swimming ring, bobbing gently in the warm waters of his indoor pool. He is alone. _Utterly alone._ The chlorinated water that slicks his skin is turning pearlescent in the region of his shaven genitalia, as the dried-on fluids of his brand-new mistake re-liquefied into jizz and saliva.

He is an idiot for fucking his dear friend, because hell no, friends with benefits _never_ worked out, and Wonwoo is one to catch feelings and Vernon isn’t. Plus (and perhaps even worse) particularly everyone in freaking Seoul knows Seungkwan has a crush on that dude. Like, seriously, how could one not notice. Although Vernon seems to have managed that for years now, still comfortably unaware of his best friend making heart eyes at him whenever he does so much as take a breath.

And now Wonwoo’s dick has ruined everything. Wonwoo starts to believe his cock is an _evil, soulless entity,_ an untrustworthy growth that is quite possibly _a government spy,_ tempting him and ruining his life _,_ and—

“Dude are you okay?”

Wonwoo stops expecting his dick for a moment to look up and grin at a half-naked Vernon who stands at the patio door, curiously staring at him.

“Not sure, if I’m honest, but shut up for a minute, I gotta think,” he tells the boy, trying hard not to notice the blue and red marks which decorate Vernon’s neck and naked chest– marks that _he_ left there.

Oh lord he is so fucked. Seungkwan is going to kill him. Or worse, cry and throw a fit, maybe attempt to throw himself off a bridge or something. And Wonwoo is definitely not stable enough to show up at a funeral that he is the cause of.

“Aight,” Vernon snorts, turning back inside.

Wonwoo watches his back as he leaves, knowing he is having a bit of a weird one, but that’s just because he ate some shrooms with Vernon earlier, and he’s not the best with psychedelics, so he’s sitting there fiddling with his dick and having a bit of an introspective freak out. Just normal summer weekend things.

Anyways, Seungkwan must understand that it’s not really his fault, and that it’s just his dick that’s _evil._ Look at it, lying there, naked and pink and _smug._ This conclusion gives Wonwoo some peace of mind, and when he slips back into his room later, his conscious is as clean as Vernon’s pimple-free skin. Skin that feels really fucking good underneath Wonwoo’s palm as he drags a hand over Vernon’s back, up to his shoulders where he places an airy kiss.

“Have we got any marshmallows? Ones that haven’t been inside your rectum, preferably?” he asks against that skin and Vernon snorts, pushing a spoon full of Nutella in his mouth.

“Nope. Ate ‘em all.”

“Fucking great,” Wonwoo groaned. “Now I have to fuck you again.”

“No, you don’t?” Vernon laughs but doesn’t object when Wonwoo starts jerking him off, slow and careful as to not make him cum all over the counter.

“Punishment, _darling_ ” Wonwoo explains when he starts looking for a fresh condom, opening up some drawers until he finally finds a strawberry one. “On your knees.”

And so Vernon ends up laying sprawled out on the cold, hard tiles half an hour later, his cock still emitting small puffs of cum, each one sending a thrill shivering up his spine. 

* * *

Seungcheol is the king of the punk scene, with his black ringlets and glasses, his fishnet over a baggy metal band shirt and tripp pants. When he trashes his guitar after a gig, people in the crowd think it’s an act of celebratory anarchy and scream his name as if he were a god. But the truth is, Seungcheol does it because he wants to be _great_ , and every fucking time he just fucks it all up and it sounds terrible. And it frustrates him, drives him mad.

He never _tries_ to be punk, or ruck, or emo, or anything, really. All he does is _feel_ the music and then suck when he performs his songs live, and man, that shit would make anyone depressed. The only thing that he modified about himself is natural jet-black hair which is now a vibrant red.

He screams his last few lines into his mic,

_“FUCK this FUCKING SONG_

_AND FUCK YOU TOO!_

_I FUCKING HATE THIS FUCKING SONG_

_And there’s SHIT ON MY SHOE!_

_This club REEKS OF SHIT!”_

_I wish that I was dead!_

_WORTHLESS FUCKING USELESS IDIOT_

_Someone shoot me in the face!”_

before giving a slight bow with his head– red sweaty hair briefly blinding him– before he high-fives his drummer and sit his ass down next to his friend at the bar.

Mingyu looks up from his beer and grins, his eyes dilated into glittering black circles and his hair standing up in all directions, clutching a burning joint.

“Bro, I had the best sex of my life this week.”

Seungcheol chirped a brow and nodded when the barkeeper handed him a beer. “Cool show, Scoups. Well done! I really enjoyed your music.”

It reminded Mingyu of the fact that tonight _was_ an actual good show and how much Seungcheol actually deserves to be praised for it– not like the time when he spent several hours sitting in the open doorway of his home with his guitar, getting utterly soaked, and howling one of his songs into the soggy abyss of the valley – when they met, he claimed that he’d been applauded throughout his performance by a rapt audience of frogs, with eyes like glowing cigarette ends. It was several hours before Mingyu realized that Seungcheol’d just been serenading his Mercedes and a garden full of slugs.

Mingyu looks to the side, bites his lips before muttering, “Yeah, that too. Sorry.”

Seungcheol snorted and took a satisfying sip of his beer. He eyed up his friend– glowing skin, soft puppy eyes that sparkled with joy, a light blush on his cheeks–

“So you fucked?”

“Yup!” Mingyu grinned. “Dude, I met this guy who was like totally into the craziest things but like, he looked like an angel. Like an actual angel, Scoups. SO pretty and fragile but so fucked up.”

“That’s the best mixture.”

Mingy nodded. “Exactly.”

“Where did you meet him?” Seungcheol inquired, already sensing something was up. And Mingyu’s nervous habit of avoiding eye contact and playing with his fingers confirmed his suspicion.

“Uhm, you won’t like this,” Mingyu said quietly, giving him big round puppy eyes. Like he was saying ‘please don’t get mad at me, look I’m cute’.

Seungcheol glanced at him with a frown, and said, “Shoot.”

Mingyu took a deep breath and confessed, “I took some…well, fuck, I don’t even know what I took, it didn’t exactly feel like E, but no one does it now anyway, it’s all this synthetic crap, but I was depressed, and angry, so I took this shit, and I ended up in this godawful party full of these rich wankers, and I was tripping _hard_ , and it really…it just…scared the _shit_ out of me, and then, I-”

“You’ve always been fucking lousy on E,” Seungcheol interrupted, lighting a cigarette. “Why haven’t you learned that yet? And in a _gay party?_ On your _own?_ ” He shook his head in despair, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“I didn’t say it was a gay party.”

Seungcheol raise a brow, and Mingyu pouted. “Fine. It was a pretty gay party. But just because the, uhm, dude who owned the building like basically begged to fuck me.”

Seungcheol laughed direly. He glances over to where a group of girls are sitting, smiling when the pretty blonde looks his way.

“I’m assuming we are talking about Jeonghan here. _The_ Jeonghan.”

Mingyu blushed so strongly even his ear tips were colored. “He was really nice, man. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You know what people say about him. He’s not good company.”

Mingyu shrugged, almost childishly. “So what? Wanna hear some of the shit people say about me or you? Normies always have _something_ to say.”

“Sounds like you’re still butthurt because people think you are a jock,” Seungcheol laughed, eyes still somewhere else, his mind secretly debating if he should just have a quickie behind the bar tonight, where the parked cars offer enough privacy for it to not be totally scandalous.

“My impressive height and perfect genes just make people assume I am this crazy popular sexy motherfucker who breaks all the girl’s hearts.”

Seungcheol snorts, dragging a hand through his crazy hair, “Yeah. I see how that could be traumatizing.”

“I’m a heart heart heart heart breaker,” Mingyu sings, moving his long limbs to an imaginative beat. Seungcheol doesn’t see why he should acknowledge that. Instead, he just goes back to eye fucking that cute blonde. Bright smile, perfect perky breasts. She looks like she’s a biter and gosh, Seungcheol thinks he could _really_ have some fun with her, fuck her so hard against the car door of his Mercedes that she comes with a scream. 

Noticing his attention is elsewhere, Mingyu pouts cutely before he takes a sip of his beer and points it into the direction of the pretty girl that Seungcheol has been eying up, “Gotta grow myself tits to get you to talk to me, I see.”

“I _am_ talking to you,” Seungcheol grins, sliding off his bar seat, “Or am I not?”

“Well, I guess technically…” Mingyu mutters, but Seungcheol is already gone, hands on the waist of the cute blonde girl, kissing her neck a moment later before dragging her through the crowd to who knows where. “Technically you’re not.”

Mingyu grimaces. Seungcheol’s dick is like a _biblical snake,_ one long, writhing, pulsating muscle, _rippling_ with raised veins and sexual power, _dripping_ with hot, slippery venom… That girl was freaking lucky. Not that Seungcheol would ever care to fuck him anyways, he was too lanky, too clumsy, too idiotic. But damn, Mingyu could dream about it.

And since Mingyu’s horny brain is already activated, it doesn’t take him long to spot a cute guy in the crowd of dancing teenagers. He is at least four heads smaller than him, and his black hair is standing out in demented tufts around his pale face, his eyes dilated into vast black orbs still smudged with traces of eyeliner. 

With his black hoodie and black skinny jeans, he totally blends in with the crowd, and Mingyu briefly wonders if the dude is in the emo scene or just really into black clothes. Well, he decides it is time to find out, striding over to where the boy stands, presenting his confident smile to the small guy.

Right when he reaches him and is about to say something smooth like ‘Hey, do I know you?’, the DJ decides it was time to go totally nuts: loud ecstasy music almost rips apart Mingyu’s ear drums and it seems that everyone on pills goes a bit mad…except for him and the guy, standing a few meters away from the headbanging, butt shaking crowd. The song is too fast, too manic, too _annoying._

Mingyu looks at boy. The boy looks up at him. Nobody speaks, because nobody _can_ speak. Mingyu glances towards the DJ, wishing he could send out a telepathic signal. But of course the DJ just has to go harder, and when Mingyu looks back to the boy, he can do nothing but shrug helplessly, giving him an apologetic smile.

Something about that seems to please the boy because he grins a bit, the corners of his mouth tugging just slightly upward, eyes half lidded, brows raised. He has completely mastered the lazy, whimsical grin. It’s the kind of smile that could make Mingyu’s heart skip a beat. Or two. Or six. Or maybe it would just stop beating altogether.

Something dark and thrumming, gloom-laden with nostalgic psychedelia swooshes around the edges of the room, smashing into Mingyu’s blood stream and now he can’t stop staring at the boy’s deep eyes, and he is sure he must look dumb right now, smiling so much his dimples are showing. Still, he can’t stop.

The boy’s eyes seem to grow and grow until there’s nothing in Mingyu’s vision but glistening black pools of impossible, inky liquid, huge dark rings devouring his soul – alive, _too alive._ Then those devouring pools blink, turn away.

And oh no, Mingyu notices the soft blush that spreads on the cheeks of the guy and gosh, they look really _soft_ and kissable, like Mingyu could practically imagine how freaking sweet that guy is and how eager to– to… Mingyu’s stupidly high brain acts on its lustful desires, and next thing he knew, he has pushed the boy in black against a wall, his lips not leaving his until the guy started responding to his actions, and Mingyu remembers what he’s doing. 

He draws back, leaning one hand on the wall next to the boy as to take some steading breaths. That’s when he notices that emo boy’s head doesn’t even reach that high, that he was so _tiny_ and damn, it does things to Mingyu’s groins. He leans down once more, brushing his nose against the boy’s tiny one and–

“Do you want me _kill_ you?”

Mingyu stops in his tracks, blinking in surprise. Emo boy sounds angry, and so masculine, and his breath was so hot against Mingyu’s mouth it sends excited shivers down his limbs. “W-What?”

“Consent, idiot.”

Mingyu feels himself flush like a tomato. “Sorry,” he mutters, briefly wondering if he smells like shit and if the guy likes weed, and him and kissing tall, lanky idiots in a punk club slash bar slash what the fuck where people doing here anyways.

“Are you going to ask me for my name?”

Mingyu glances down, taking notice of the boy’s expectant stare. “Uh, sure. What’s your name?”

He rolled his eyes. “What a gentleman you are. I’m Woozi. You?”

Mingyu smiled shyly, leaning in once more, daringly close. Eye to eye.

“Mingyu.”

The guy let out another snort of laughter, stating wryly, “Your kissing is pretty decent, Mingyu.”

And that’s all it took for Mingyu to lean down once more and to kiss Woozi, hands on his waist, pulling him closer, tongues and teeth and lips meeting, with Woozi’s hand in his hair, tugging and pulling at him.

When Woozi offers him a small white pill, he is too horny to even bother asking what it is – he just swallows it, and rolls on top of his new friend. They end up on the dance floor, and Mingyu was reasonably satisfied with the music, but Woozi got sulkier and sulkier, until finally Mingyu allows himself to be dragged out into the night, and into the back of a taxi.

Everything has taken on a mildly surreal tinge by the time they reach their destination, the sweaty neon-lit depths of Woozi’s flat – the décor slick, the music relaxing and more laid back. His bed isn’t made but it looks comfortable, unlike Mingyu’s. He even has his own desk, whereas the only surface Mingyu can sketch his fashion ideas on is a textbook on his lap. There’s an open notebook on the desk where it looks like Woozi crossed out some music notes he was composing.

Mingyu doesn’t get the chance to look at it closer because Woozi practically throws him on the bed– he is surprisingly strong for a guy his size, or maybe Mingyu is just too much of a puppy and way too willing to _obey_ and do as told.

“What are you–“

Woozi catches his words with a kiss, now maneuvering himself on top of Mingyu, his strong legs holding him down on both sides, and hands clutching his face, making sure he can’t escape the intense making out that is taking place.

“Less talking, more fucking,” Woozi groans in between their heated kisses, and Mingyu allows himself to move his large hand that is splayed out right at the top of Woozi’s thigh, dangerously close to the inner seam of his jeans. His fingers twitch and he shakily presses down into the clothed flesh, allowing his hand to very, very slowly slide slightly upward.

By this point, he’s definitely feeling weird, and he can’t make his mind up yet whether it’s a good weird, or a bad one – he feels the golden high of the drug in his blood stream, mixing in with the thrill of having that beautiful boy on top of him, and decides it’s definitely a fucked up weird but in a good way.

He experimentally drags his finger's across Woozi's crotch again and the boy hisses a breath “ _keep going”_ in response, pressing his own forehead back into Mingyu's as he waits for the latter to make a move.

There’s the sound of a zipper opening itself and Mingyu tries not to groan because Woozi is actually _hard_. He feels his own cock stiffen at the thought but he has absolutely no idea what he's doing so he just helplessly looks down at Woozi.

Their faces are still practically pressed up against each others', and he can feel Woozi's breath on his chin. Woozi leans down a bit and slowly bites down on Mingyu's protruding lower lip before whispering into his mouth, “Jerk me off.”

And Minyu does. His hand is huge and although Woozi is average in size, it isn’t a hassle to make him grow bigger, as most of his hand covered all of his member. At some point, Woozi can’t seem to take it anymore and pushes them both back, nearly toppling Mingyu to the ground and they are a mess of limbs and hair and pulled t-shirts.

Woozi moves to straddle Mingyu's thigh now, his own leg pressed hard into Mingyu's crotch and before he can register what's happening he feels Woozi roll his hips down. Their foreheads are pressed together again, almost angrily so, and Mingyu feels Woozi sigh into his mouth at the contact and he rolls his hips down again.

And again, and _again_ , and he keeps pressing down into his thigh, rubbing his erection against Mingyu's leg and he's starting to rub his own thigh against Mingyu's. Mingyu groans, letting his hand slide up the side of Woozi's thigh until his fingers rest just a hairs width away from the curve of his ass.

He squeezes again and Woozi makes a sort of high-pitched whimper that makes Mingyu's cock twitch. The flesh on Woozi's thigh is soft and pliant and _god_ he would give anything to feel this unclothed and unrestrained, but he doesn't want to break the moment. And honestly, even if Woozi let him take them off, he's not even sure he would be able to peel the fabric down his thighs with the way his hands are still shaking.

Woozi is panting heavily as he continues to grind down on Mingyu's thigh and his breath is hot against his mouth and Mingyu is so unbelievably hard now it's beginning to ache. His breathing is shallow and he sort of just wants to fall backwards and let Woozi take full control of him but the bigger part of him just wants more friction.

So when Woozi smirks and breathes out a _“fuck me”_ against his lips, it only takes a moment before he's shoved Woozi off him, flinging him back to the ground, and pulling his black jeans over his butt and down his legs.

Woozi looks a bit flustered, propped up by his arms behind him and legs bent slightly at the knees, and Mingyu’s cock pulses at the sight because Woozi is _willingly_ spreading his legs for him. Mingyu decides not to hesitate as he closes the distance between them, pressing their groins firmly together and he moans at finally getting that much needed friction.

When Mingyu finally is able to ease himself inside of the boy, slowly and carefully after he put on a condom, Woozi wraps his hands around Chanyeol's neck to help steady himself as he begins to frantically roll his hips, sighing out every time he does.

Mingyu presses into him, watching how Woozi's jaw goes slack. He's still panting and that _goddamn_ lower lip is still sticking out so Mingyu tentatively nips at it. Woozi gasps and it only seems to spur Mingyu on further, still sliding in and out as he sucks and bites at Woozi’s lips.

He lets his hand once again squeeze at Woozi's thigh and the thought of Woozi's soft milky _vampire_ skin– gosh, that boy really was made to be a goth– sends him further into a frenzy as he keeps fucking into the boy.

Woozi whimpers, rather high pitched, and it sounds like he's saying something but Mingyu doesn't quite catch it. Mingyu thinks he knows what he said but he doesn't like to assume so he breathes out a confused “ _huh?”._

Mingyu frowns though because Woozi looks almost embarrassed as he tips his head down, trying to avoid eye contact. He slides his cheek across Woozi's, nuzzling his nose into the curve of his ear, breathing, “ _please,_ say it again. I want to hear you say it”.

And Woozi takes maybe two or three deep breaths, hot air ghosting against Mingyu's flesh before whispering into the skin below his jaw, _“_ I'm going to come”.

That's all it takes. A spark seems to manifest itself in Mingyu's belly, twisting around his gut and his entire body tenses up and he's chanting Woozi's name like a prayer as he comes.

Mingyu is incredibly sensitive now, slowly coming down from the high but he keeps rolling his hips into Woozi, wanting to help him finish. Woozi whimpers again but it's cut short this time and his top lip twitches, pulling up slightly and it seems like Woozi has possibly stopped breathing for a moment. Mingyu feels Woozi's grip tighten around his neck and his thighs clench and unclench as he comes and Mingyu pulls his head back further so he can see it on the boy‘s face. 

Mingyu's hands are still on his thighs and he feels Woozi's body relax against his as he rides out the last wave of his orgasm. Woozi's lips look abused and sore and he kind of wants to kiss them better but he thinks that may be crossing the line, although he isn't sure what the hell their boundaries are.

Mingyu's stomach lurches and his own breathing seems to stop when he sees Woozi grinning up at him from beneath his now sweat-dampened hair and he instinctively moves closer without thinking, but catches himself before he does something stupid.

He presses their foreheads together again, smirking as he says in his best American accent, trying to sound like a jock as much as possible, “And how was it? Did I fuck you real good?”  
  
But before he can laugh at his own joke, Woozi's fist connects with his shoulder, sending him flying backwards as he cries out in pain and he realizes just how sharp Woozi's knuckles are.

“I'm going for a shower,”Woozi sneers, and he seems to be filled with a renewed sort of energy as he jumps up from the floor, sauntering over towards where Mingyu guesses his bathroom is.

Mingyu fidgets in place, trying not to get disgusted at the sticky substance plastering his crotch. He watches though, as Woozi pauses before entering the bathroom, turning and sending Mingyu a look. Maybe it's just the way the harsh fluorescent light from the bathroom reflects off the sheen of sweat now sitting on Woozi's skin but it seems like he's glowing.

And the look he sends Mingyu seems to send a jolt straight through the pit of his stomach, and Mingyu swears Woozi's skin has never looked more inviting. He shoves the thoughts of a glimmering Woozi to one side though, as he scrambles up to his feet and he tries to figure out the best way to somehow turn a shower into a second round of _fun_.

* * *

As the sun sets over the Hollywood hills, Jeonghan is sprawled out on a sun lounger, watching the flaming sky fade into twilight. Five minutes ago, he has inserted two highly potent ecstasy pills into his rectum, before inviting his chosen disciple to fuck him all the way to euphoria.

He watchs lazily as Joshua’s muscles ripple beneath fair pink skin, each thrust of his dick grinding the drugs into the delicate membranes of Jeonghan’s colon, until perpetual waves of electric energy are flowing through him, the sunset sky beginning to shimmer and sparkle.

Once Joshua’s semen is warmly dissolving the crushed remnants of Jeonghan’s drugs, he stumbles into the house, his vision vibrating with chemical surges of pleasure, his cock throbbing with lust. In the spacious living room, he finds Dino offering up a loaded syringe.

Jeonghan sprawls out across a red velvet couch, sliding the needle into his vein as the boy wraps his welcoming lips around Dino’s cock. Gosh, the sweet boy doesn’t often take care of him that way, but when he does it just _hits._

“Nobody’s as good as you at cock sucking,” he slurs, patting Dino’s head. He sighs, watching his long dick disappearing into the warm depths of the boy’s mouth before appearing once more.

“Good cock-slut,” he groans, knowing that the boy is a freaking simp for him and wouldn’t stop sucking him off even if Jeonghan called him worse things.

* * *

Vernon doesn’t make any resolutions, on New Year’s Eve. Before the clock strikes midnight, he finds himself out on the balcony with Seungkwan, his cherry red sweater moving in the breeze as he shivered inside Vernon’s leather jacket, smoking a Lucky Strike, premature fireworks erupting across the city skyline.

“Do you know that Troye Sivan song,” Seungkwan mutters, staring at the sky with glossy eyes. “Lucky Strike?”

“Nah.”

Seungkwan nods, releasing a breath of smoke into the cold midnight air. “A hit of dopamine, higher than I've ever been,” he sings quietly, and Vernon scoots closer, always happy to listen to his friend’s beautiful voice. “Breathe me in, exhale slow.”

Vernon smiles and leans in a bit closer, thinking he could really get used to that. Just this moment forever and ever and ever.

“Make a wish,” Seungkwan orders, checking his watch and glancing up at him with a crooked grin. “Clock goes boom in one minute – speak now or forever hold your limp dick!”

Vernon doesn’t believe in resolutions, because they sound like hard work, and hard work isn’t any fun. Seungkwan believes in wishes, in getting things that you don’t deserve, that you don’t even need, just because you want them. Vernon only believes in the optimism of wishes, unaware of anything else.

“Ok…” he agrees anyways, because no one can say to no to Seungkwan, and frowns thoughtfully. “If I have to pick something, I guess I pick love. I wish to fall in love this year.”

“Bullshit!” Seungkwan groans, rolling his eyes and blowing a cloud of smoke all over him. “It’s easy to fall in love, no one needs magic to fall in love. It’s being loved back that’s the hard part.”

He scowls out across the rooftops, his dark eyes narrowed, and Vernon knows that he said something wrong although he has no clue why. Seungkwan loves to throw fits and usually Vernon always knows what’s up and how to make Seungkwan cheer up again but this time he’s clueless.

“Alright then,” Vernon conceded. “I wish to be _loved_ in the next year. A lot.”

“You are already loved!” Seungkwan scoffed. “How much more love do you want, huh? I’m close to insanity at this point.”

Vernon laughs, taking a gulp of his beer and flinging his arms out wide. He throws his head back, and hollers at the cloudy night sky,

“I BELIEVE IN SEUNGKWAN’S MAGIC! THIS YEAR I’M GONNA FALL IN LOVE!”

And the sound of a raucous countdown begins from inside the party, culminating in a rapidfire explosion all around them, glittering rainbow showers raining down from the skies as the new year rolled in.

When Vernon grins at his friend, Seungkwan gives him a cold stare before grabbing him by the collar and dragging him down for a drunken smooch. His mouth tastes a bit like ash and sweet liquor mixed together, and when Vernon drags a tongue over teeth, pushing in a bit deeper, he also tastes _Seungkwan_ , a lot of him.

When Vernon’s hands slid down to Seungkwan’s ass, he shoves him roughly away, grinning widely – Seungkwan’s magic has begun.

“You like me, Vernon Chwe. And you’re really dumb and mean sometimes but I’ll forgive you because I know you can’t help it with your one overworked braincell.”

“Hey,” Vernon protests, a bit slow because he’s still overwhelmed from the kiss and also very, very confused. “I’m not a himbo!”

Seungkwan pulls him down for another passionate kiss, “Yes, of course you are. Capricorns are basically himbo collectors.”

Vernon doesn’t have it in him to start a heated argument about astrology and why he isn’t a himbo at all, especially when he already knows Seungkwan is going to win because that boy is so god damn witty and, well, Vernon _is_ a tiny bit slow when it comes to these things. Not that this justified being called a Himbo.

When Vernon wakes up on the floor of the party, dim light filtering underneath the curtains, Seungkwan’s sweaty forehead is lying next to his face, Hoshi and DK are snoring on the sofa, and his tongue feels like a chunk of mouldy carpet.

He sits up groggily, reaching out for a nearby can of beer and taking a swig. It is warm and flat, and slightly gritty with cigarette ash. He looks to his friend, smiling slighty because Seungkwan is sprawled out on his back, his hoodie drawn tight around his face so that only his face was visible.

As he tries in vain to get back to sleep, he thinks again about a New Year’s resolution. Vernon thinks about it for a long time, but he still comes up empty-handed. All in all, he’s pretty happy with his life. School is fine, and he can’t really complain about his friends either, the core four he knows from high school, the constantly shifting outer band of cheerful drinking acquaintances, and the ever-present Seungkwan.

Seungkwan who said he _likes_ him.

What did Wonwoo say again? “ _Seungkwan is like deeply in love with you, bro. You gotta tell him that we fucked.”_

Vernon side-eyes his sleeping friend. Seungkwan has actually cried when Vernon awkwardly confessed that he and Wonwoo were fuck buddies. Vernon thought it was a strange reaction but Seungkwan’s explanation just sounded so reasonable– “ _Stuff like that just fucks with friendship. It never works out. This is going to end in a big freaking disaster.”_

And of course, Vernon had done the only right thing by telling Seungkwan he was sorry for being so stupid and that he wouldn’t fuck around with Wonwoo anymore. Because he now understands how messy it all was. Vernon doesn't mind giving up on an occasional good fuck if it means protecting their friendship.

But Seungkwan? Is he still upset? Upset because... he doesn't want Vernon to fuck Wonwoo... he wants Vernon to fuck him?

Is he… in love with Vernon?

And is he, Vernon Chwe, in love with his best friend, Boo Seungkwan?

He frees Seungkwan of his hoodie prison and leans close to his best friend's ears, nose brushing over soft red hair, and whispers, “Hey, are you awake?

Seungkwan’s eyelids flutter but he doesn’t open them, just stays still. Vernon knows better. Seungkwan is afraid, he realizes. Afraid of whatever is between them or not, and Vernon is afraid too, in a way.

Softly, he places a palm on Seungkwan’s chest, right above his beating heart. “I know you’re awake, Kwannie. I can tell by how fast your heart beats.”

Seungkwan opens his eyes a tiny bit, sneering “Stop staring at me, it’s fucking creepy.”

“You’re adorable when you’re grumpy,” Vernon whispers into Seungkwan’s red hair.

“I hate you,” replies Seungkwan, in a quieter whisper, trailing his arms up Vernon’s back, over the jut of his shoulder blades, where his fingers dance on his skin.

“Kwannie…”

“Hmm?”

“What if… I know this sounds really weird but, I was thinking… we’re pretty close, aren’t we?”

He rubs the back of his neck, flushed and heated, and suddenly– Seungkwanis laughing. His bright laugh. Vernon’s favorite laugh of his; the one that rings clear and fresh, the kind that speaks of friendship and fondness without a single word.

He has to press his hand over Seungkwan’s mouth though, whispering “Keep it down!”

Seungkwan’s eyes flicker to where DK and Hoshi were cuddeling on the sofa. “Sorry,” he says, his voice muffled by Vernon’s hand.

They stare at each other for a moment, until Vernon lets Seungkwan’s lips free and swallows the lump in his throat.

“What do you think about being boyfriends, Seungkwan?” he asks.

And even though Seungkwan looks wide awake in that moment, red face and all, he just hums as if he was half-asleep and clinging to his consciousness by a thread. He clutches Vernon tighter.

“Is that a yes?” Vernon asks breathless, feeling his heart almost burst in his chest. He’s never felt like this, never, not even when he was high on some strong shit.

“Y-yeah.” Seungkwan’s voice is small and wobbly, and Vernon sees a clear drop of water run down his cheek. He smiles, then, feather-light and as thin as air.

Vernon hears the word reverberate in endless echoes, through his ears, down his body, all the way to the tips of his toes. They are together now, boyfriends, even though that sounds super cringy to his ears it made him grin and his heart burst with warmth.

He trails his lips down Seungkwan’s nose, behind his ear, to rest at his lips; enough for Vernon to kiss him softly, murmuring –

“Boyfriend.”

* * *

Woozi’d been a bit in love with Chanyeol, when they first met, and once they’d slept together on a grimy sofa in a rehearsal room, surrounded by the leftover odour of sweaty drummers, the wailing guitars of a rock band pulsating through the wall.

Woozi had gone home with a permanent grin, already thinking of Chanyeol as his boyfriend, imagining himself in the front row of the boy’s gigs as he sang every song to Woozi only. Because Woozi has always been a bit too romantic, expecting every love to be _the_ one.

His dream had lasted 6 months, before he realized all of Chanyeol’s bad habits, his insecurities, his clinginess. How the man can’t be alone for a whole evening, how he’s always scared of being left alone, abandoned. How is jealous and aggressive sometimes, and how he gets so god-damn into his music and art that he forgets everything and anything around him, not showing up when Woozi _really_ needs him.

And when Mingyu had approached him in the club, all lanky and tall and handsome and _dangerous,_ but still sweet, with his dimply smile and soft laughter… He’d reminded Woozi of how Chanyeol has once been. Before.

So, he’d fucked Mingyu, to prove himself he didn’t need Chanyeol, or to feel closer to the idealistic idea of whom Chanyeol could’ve been, or to make himself love Chanyeol again, in a really fucked up way.

He’s no therapist, so god knows why he actually did it. But it doesn’t matter, not really. Ultimately the only thing that matters is that he did cheat. Ruined his relationship, fucked Chanyeol over, hurt Mingyu in the process.

After Chanyeol broke up with him and Mingyu cussed him out in big fashion, Woozi feels crushed and hates himself for having done all this shit, and for having used Mingyu back then. Surprisingly, Mingyu doesn’t disappear out of his life.

Their friendship continues, and for the first year he holds out hope that after some time, Mingyu would catch feelings, would come to love him, fuck him, but it never happens. Then as time wears on, he realizes that he doesn’t even mind. Mingyu would come round on a Friday night, not sweaty and half-drunk from a gig or a rehearsal like Chanyeol, dumping himself down on his sofa and resting his dirty socks on the coffee table, showing Woozi his latest design or a particular beautiful picture that he snapped.

And that’s how it went on. Just habit, just comfort. Just a fleeting warm rush. Not idealistically romantic, not dramatic eiter.


End file.
